The train climbed steadily, each turn pulling Akari farther from the world she knew.

At first, the view beyond the window still carried traces of the city—low concrete buildings, rusted fences, the backs of warehouses tagged with graffiti. Then the structures thinned. Roads narrowed. Trees began to crowd the tracks, their branches knitting overhead like clasped fingers.

By late afternoon, the urban sprawl was gone entirely.

Forested hills rolled past in deepening shades of green, the air growing thinner, cleaner with every kilometer. Soon even the hills fell away, replaced by sheer mountains that rose abruptly from the earth, their peaks half-hidden by drifting veils of mist. Pines dominated the slopes, dark and ancient, standing in quiet ranks that seemed to watch the train pass.

The carriage was old—older than any train Akari had ridden before. The seats were upholstered in faded fabric, the windows scratched and slightly warped. Every jolt of the tracks shuddered through the metal floor, a steady, almost comforting rhythm.

There were few passengers.

An elderly couple murmured to each other in the far end of the compartment. A young man slept with his head against the window, earbuds dangling uselessly from his ears. Otherwise, the space felt abandoned, as if this route existed more out of obligation than demand.

Akari sat alone on one side, her bag at her feet, her reflection faintly visible in the glass. She looked different to herself—paler, sharper somehow, her eyes too bright against the washed-out light.

As the train curved around a mountain bend, something on the ridge ahead caught her attention.

She leaned closer to the window.

At first, she thought it was a trick of shadow—rock and mist resolving into a familiar shape. Then it moved.

A wolf stood on the rocky outcrop, its coat a blend of grey and black that matched the stone beneath it. It was large, larger than any wolf Akari had ever seen in pictures, its frame lean and powerful.

It began to move as the train did.

Not running.

Loping.

Its gait was unhurried, effortless, as if the terrain offered no resistance. It kept perfect pace with the train, maintaining the same distance, its head held low, eyes locked on Akari’s window.

Her breath caught.

The wolf didn’t bare its teeth. It didn’t snarl or bark. There was no hunger in its posture, no aggression.

It watched.

The way a guard watches a gate. The way a sentry marks time.

The elderly woman seated across the aisle let out a sharp gasp.

She followed the woman’s gaze and saw fear bloom there, quick and unmistakable. The woman’s hand flew to her chest, fingers moving in the sign of the cross with trembling urgency.

“Naznačenie (An indication),” she whispered.

The word fell into the space between them, heavy and final.

Omen.

Designation.

The woman’s eyes flicked to Akari, and whatever she saw there seemed to confirm her worst suspicions. She gathered her bag with shaking hands, stood, and shuffled past without another word, her shoulder brushing the seat as if eager to put distance between them.

The compartment door slid shut behind her.

Akari didn’t look away from the window.

Her heart was beating faster now, but not with fear. A strange ache bloomed in her chest—deep, melancholic, familiar in a way she couldn’t explain. It felt like recognition without memory, like meeting someone whose name she had forgotten but whose presence her body remembered.

She raised her hand and pressed her palm to the cold glass.

The wolf slowed.

Then it stopped.

For a moment, train and creature moved on without each other. The distance stretched, fragile and deliberate.

The wolf lifted its head.

Its jaws opened, throat working as it drew in breath. Akari saw the tension in its muscles, the powerful line of its neck, the silent force gathering there.

No sound reached her.

But she knew.

A howl poured from the wolf, felt rather than heard, a vibration that resonated in her bones. The creature held the pose for a heartbeat longer, eyes still fixed on her, and then turned.

In two fluid motions, it vanished into the trees.

Akari lowered her hand slowly.

The train rounded another bend, the ridge disappearing from view as if it had never existed at all.

When the train finally began to slow, the light outside had shifted toward evening. The sun dipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the tracks.

The sign at the platform was simple, its letters carved deep into weathered wood.

LUPINARA

The platform itself was little more than planks laid over gravel. No lights. No advertisements. No welcoming banners. The train doors hissed open, and Akari stepped down onto the wood.

No one else followed.

The doors closed. The train pulled away, its engine fading into the mountains until even its echo was swallowed by the forest.

Silence settled.

A man waited at the edge of the platform. He wore a thick wool coat despite the mild air, his beard grizzled and his eyes sharp beneath heavy brows. He took her ticket without a word, examined it briefly, then nodded once.

He didn’t welcome her.

He pointed.

An ancient Dacia sat nearby, its paint dulled with age, engine idling with a low, patient rumble. The car looked like it had been waiting for a long time.

Akari slung her bag over her shoulder and walked toward it, every step feeling measured, observed.

Behind her, the stationmaster spoke.

“Spune-i lui Ionescu că lună nouă este trecută. (Let Ionescu know that the new moon has passed.)

She turned.

He met her gaze, expression unreadable.

“Tell Ionescu the new moon has passed,” he said in rough English, then turned away, already walking back toward the station office.

Akari stood there for a moment, the weight of his words settling over her.

The first sliver of moon crept into the sky above the mountains, thin and pale—but visible.

She opened the taxi door.

Whatever schedule she had just entered, it had already begun.

The taxi door shut with a hollow thump that echoed too loudly in the mountain air.

Akari slid into the back seat, the worn upholstery creaking beneath her weight. The interior smelled faintly of pine, old leather, and something sharper-oil, perhaps, or metal warmed by a long-running engine.

The driver turned in his seat, grin already in place.

"Ah! The Tanaka heir!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands once. "Welcome, welcome to Lupinara!"

He was in his forties, Akari guessed, with dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples. His smile was wide and easy, the kind meant to disarm. But his eyes-sharp, dark, restless-missed nothing. They swept over her quickly, then retreated to the road ahead as he shifted into gear.

"Mircea," he said, tapping his chest. "I drive everyone important. You will find I am very reliable."

The car lurched forward, tires crunching over gravel as they pulled away from the station. The road narrowed almost immediately, winding upward between thick stands of pine. The mountains closed in, hemming them with stone and shadow.

Akari folded her hands in her lap, fingers interlaced to keep them from fidgeting. "Thank you for meeting me."

"But of course! We were expecting you." He chuckled lightly, as if the words were a joke rather than a fact. "You must be tired, yes? Long journey. Tokyo is very far."

It was the first time anyone in Lupinara had spoken the name of her former life aloud. The distance between the city and this road felt immeasurable.

As the car climbed, Mircea launched into conversation with the enthusiasm of someone following a well-rehearsed script.

"Lupinara," he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand before returning it to the wheel. "It means 'Place of the Wolf.' Very old name. But do not worry-the wolves here, they are... how do you say... community-minded." He laughed at his own phrasing. "Protective. Good luck, some say! Tourists love these stories."

He began a tale about a lost child saved from the forest by a great wolf who guided her home beneath the moon. His voice rose and fell at all the right moments, the cadence smooth and comforting.

Akari watched the road slip past, the trees blurring into dark streaks. "Do many tourists come here?" she asked.

"Some," Mircea replied easily. "Hikers. Folklore enthusiasts. People who like mystery." His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Not to her face.

To her hands.

She felt it immediately-the subtle scrutiny, the way his gaze lingered on her posture, the tension in her shoulders, the stillness she hadn't realized she was holding. When he inhaled, it wasn't just to breathe. It was deliberate, measured.

Sniffing.

The realization sent a small chill down her spine.

"You have the look of your family," Mircea said casually, as if commenting on the weather. "The eyes."

Akari met his gaze in the mirror. "You knew my uncle?"

"Everyone knew Kenji Tanaka." The smile remained, but something tightened at its edges. "He was... respected."

The road curved sharply, and the valley opened before them.

Lupinara emerged from the trees like something half-remembered-a cluster of steep-roofed houses huddled together, smoke curling from chimneys, narrow streets threading between stone and timber. It looked untouched by time, as though modernity had simply flowed around it and moved on.

On the far side of the valley, perched high on the north ridge, stood a house unlike the others.

It loomed.

Even from this distance, Akari felt its presence-a dark silhouette against the fading sky, broad and angular, commanding the slope beneath it.

Mircea followed her gaze.

"The Tanaka house," he said. "North ridge. It sees the whole valley."

His voice lost some of its practiced warmth.

"It has... good bones," he continued. "Strong. Like your uncle."

The taxi passed beneath a carved wooden sign at the edge of town.

LUPINARA – PROTEJAT DE LUPI

LUPINARA — PROTECTED BY THE WOLVES.

Mircea's smile slipped.

Just for a second-but it was enough.

"Remember, domnișoară Tanaka," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road now. "Here, the stories are not just for children."

The car rolled deeper into the town.

"The house sees all," he added. "And the packs see the house."

Silence settled between them, heavy and deliberate.

Akari leaned back against the seat, her pulse quickening as the truth beneath the performance finally showed its teeth.

Whatever Lupinara was pretending to be for outsiders, she was no longer one of them.

Akari asked Mircea to let her out in the central square.

The taxi slowed, tires crunching over cobblestone, and pulled to the side without question. Mircea met her eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable now, the practiced cheer stripped away.

"Be careful," he said quietly.

She nodded, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out.

The square was small but meticulously kept. A stone church stood at its center, weathered and solid, its bell tower rising like a watchful finger against the sky. A few shops ringed the space-a butcher, a grocer, a narrow storefront with faded postcards in the window. Across from the church sat a low, timbered pub with a painted sign swinging gently in the breeze.

La Luna Plină.

The Full Moon.

Late afternoon light slanted across the square, catching on stone and glass. It should have been picturesque. It should have felt welcoming.

Instead, it felt held.

No one spoke. No children ran. The only sound was the wind moving through the narrow streets, carrying the scent of pine and cold earth.

Akari became aware of eyes.

Faces appeared at windows as she took her first steps into the square. Curtains shifted. A door cracked open and then shut again. She felt the collective attention like a physical pressure against her skin, as if the town itself were leaning in to examine her.

Her shoulders tightened.

She headed for the pub.

The moment she opened the door, warmth spilled over her-thick, heavy with the smell of stew, bread, and beer. Human scent layered over it all, close and intimate, pressing into her senses.

The noise inside died instantly.

Conversations cut off mid-word. A chair scraped softly against the floor and then stilled. Akari stood just inside the doorway, her hand still on the handle, as a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Not curious.

Assessing.

She forced herself to breathe and crossed to the bar.

The bartender was a large man with a thick beard and arms like carved stone. He wiped a glass with a rag, his movements slow and deliberate. He did not smile.

"Da?" he said.

"Coffee, please," Akari replied, her voice sounding too loud in the silence. "And... the stew, if it's available."

He nodded once, set the glass down, and turned toward the coffee machine.

Relief flickered.

Akari reached into her bag, pulling out her passport as she tried to remember the name of the solicitor's office, the address she'd copied down. The blue cover caught the light.

The bartender saw it.

His gaze dropped to the name printed there.

Tanaka.

The color drained from his face.

He straightened slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bar as if for balance. When he spoke again, his voice was tight.

"No coffee. No stew."

Akari frowned. "You just-"

"We are... out," he finished.

The lie hung between them, thin and obvious.

She glanced around. The patrons had gone very still. No one met her eyes now. A man at a nearby table muttered something under his breath, fingers curling around his glass.

Akari's chest tightened. "I can pay-"

"It is not about money."

The bartender turned away, dismissing her with his back.

At the far corner of the pub, an ancient woman sat alone. She was wrapped in a black shawl, her face a map of deep lines, her eyes pale and sharp.

She had not looked away.

Slowly, deliberately, the woman raised her hand.

She extended her index and pinkie fingers while folding the others down, the gesture unmistakable-a ward against the evil eye.

Her lips moved.

"Vârcolac."

The word slid into Akari's bones like ice.

Werewolf.

Specter.

Something not human.

Heat flooded Akari's face-humiliation, fear, anger tangling together until she couldn't tell them apart. She took a step back, then another, until her shoulders hit the door.

She pushed it open and stumbled into the square.

The door swung shut behind her with a final thud.

Inside, the murmur of conversation resumed, low and urgent now, threaded with fear.

Akari stood there for a moment, heart pounding, the cold air burning her lungs. She pressed her lips together until the sting of tears subsided.

Get a grip.

She adjusted her bag and walked away from the pub, keeping her head high as the square seemed to watch her retreat.

She found the solicitor's address scribbled on her phone and followed it past the church, past shuttered windows and narrow alleys. The town felt smaller now, tighter, as if the space around her were contracting.

The butcher shop came next.

The window display was stark-whole carcasses hung from metal hooks, skinned and clean, pale flesh marbled with dark veins. The sight should have turned her stomach.

Instead, a wave of scent hit her.

Raw. Fresh. Metallic.

Blood.

Her mouth filled with saliva. Her stomach clenched-not in revulsion, but in sharp, sudden hunger.

Akari staggered back, a hand flying to her mouth.

What is wrong with me?

The smell was intoxicating, alive in a way cooked food had never been. It made her pulse quicken, her senses narrow and sharpen. For a terrifying heartbeat, she imagined pressing her palm against the glass, felt the phantom weight of meat in her hands.

Her stomach growled, loud in the empty street.

She turned away abruptly, breathing hard, horrified by the response of her own body.

The town had rejected her.

And something inside her was answering in kind.